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The Hall of Fame - August 2002 |
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Uncommon Dialogue
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there are dog days of summer, this one was a Great Dane. Heat radiated from the
concrete and drifted upwards along the sides of the skyscrapers. The sky, between
the buildings, was its usual gray-blue. Rick Mason continued his brisk pace down
W. 34th Street. Sweat began to run down his back, making him glad that he was
carrying his sport coat rather than wearing it. All around him, people scurried
down the sidewalk, like water drops on a hot skillet. The whole city hurries,
Rick thought. Life was much slower back on the islands. The ocean breeze kept
things cooler, too. A phone call had jarred him awake at seven thirteen that morning. He couldn’t recognize the voice. It sounded almost cartoonish. "9:15. Starbucks at Macy’s Herald Square," the voice said. "Hello? Hello? The Macy’s on 34th?" Rick asked. His only response was a dial tone. He showered, dressed, and left the hotel. A jewelry store clock hung over the sidewalk and Rick noticed that his fellow pedestrians would look at the clock, then check their own wrists as they walked past it. The clock read 9:04. Rick weaved around a pair of dog walkers. He did not want to be late for this first meeting. He stopped at a crosswalk, waiting for the walk signal to appear. A flash of green and orange flew past his face. Shaking his head, he looked around. A tall man yelled into his cell phone. The woman accompanying him rolled her eyes. Two other men stood staring at the traffic signal, as if willing it to change. Nothing seemed to be flying around. Must have been some bad Scotch last night, Rick thought. He crossed the street with the crowd. As he reached the middle of the next block, he heard the voice again. "9:15. Starbucks at Macy’s Herald Square." He looked around to find the source. To his right, a large green parrot perched on top of a phone booth. --Excuse me? A phone booth? My, aren’t we dating ourselves? Well, Rick, do you have a better term? --Anything would be better than booth. Booth makes me think of Superman, and I am not about to change into tights and fly away. You sound pretty sure about that. --Of course I’m sure. I’m the hero of this story and I should know what I’m doing. Who are you anyway? I’m the narrator. --Not a very good one. You started with the weather. Cliched weather at that. You’re lucky the ASPCA doesn’t come after you for abusing that Great Dane. I didn’t make it up, I just tell. I mean show. --Ah, yes, that all-knowing, bodiless voice that will follow me and relate my every thought and action. I have some bad news for you, pal. The new literary gurus prefer the first person point of view now. I should get to tell my own story. You can go back to the dark ages and renew acquaintances with your old friend, Jane Austen. And a good friend she was. Her characters would never give me such a hard time. Can we get back to the parrot now? Ahem, The magnificent green bird perched on the phone booth, watching the people pass under it. As Rick drew near, it spread out its wings. Rick hadn’t seen such a beautiful bird since his trip to Hawaii fifteen years ago. --Hey, uh, you, narrator? I’d rather you not mention that Hawaii trip. And you think I care about your opinion? --You ought to, I’m the hero; I’m the one the reader cares about. I’d hate to ruin the reader’s good opinion of me with the business in Hawaii. And I’m the one the reader trusts. Frankly, I think the reader would be quite amused by the Hawaiian incident. Most people would realize that goats and luaus don’t mix. The grass skirts were way too tempting and ... --Could I just tell this story myself? I could do first person POV very well. I saw the parrot, perched on the fire alarm box. It was very green. I looked around to see if anyone else noticed it. My fellow sidewalk mates seemed to not see it at all. Stop, you have no sense of style or rhythm. You’re even boring me. May I please continue? --No. You’re not telling it right either. There are some thoughts I would prefer to keep to myself. Well, I didn’t mention what you thought when you passed that woman in the brown suede mini skirt three blocks back. --Now that would make a great story. Tell you what, Mr. Narrator, let’s can the parrot and go back to her. See, you don’t even know what the story is? And you want to tell it? Please, spare us. --And you know the entire story? You still think there are phone booths in New York City. I’m appealing to a higher authority. Maybe I could take a website poll at MSNBC.Com. That Jane Pauly chick at Dateline would plead my case. There is only one authority that could make that decision. --Yeah, who? The writer. --You’re not the writer? No, I told you, I’m the narrator. I can be the voice of the writer, but I still follow orders. Better than you do at any rate. --Oh, yeah the writer. Kind of like God, only with an inferiority complex. Yeah, let’s go ask the writer. No skin off my back. We’ll ask the writer, then you can delete the parrot and Hawaii while I go back to the suede miniskirt and be a hero. You’ll have one problem. --What’s that? The writer has a soft spot for the parrot. --Get real. I am the hero. The whole plot line revolves around me. Not you, not the city and certainly not some stinking parrot. Believe what you want. I’m betting on the parrot. -- Of course you’ll side with the parrot, the parrot needs narration. But I am the story. I can solve the mystery and rescue the girl. Let’s see your parrot try that. Very well. If there are dog days
of summer, this one was a Great Dane. Heat radiated from the concrete and drifted
upwards along the sides of the skyscrapers. The sky, between the buildings, was
its usual gray-blue. Percy the Parrot sat atop a phone booth, waiting. Below him,
people scurried down the sidewalk, like water drops on a hot skillet... Copyright ©2002 Susan Haven. All Rights Reserved |
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Kiss Liberty
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| If you were true: But no one could know you-- I would take your lips to mine, Copyright ©2002 Amanda Harvey. All Rights Reserved |
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Fat Baby's and Maghy's Legacies
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| It's been a very rough month for me. I lost my beloved cat, Mahgy, developed a serious sinus infection and volunteered at a local no-kill animal refuge. Mahgy's image will stay with me forever, and I hope the infection leaves soon. The refuge, however, has now become a part of my life. I knew when I lost Mahgy, I could never have another animal. I couldn't free myself from a feeling of betrayal if I came to like, let alone love, another cat. To hold on to that feeling, but still fill my need for something warm and fuzzy, I visited Pet Refuge, a non-profit shelter totally dependent on donations and volunteers. I wasn't prepared for the impact that visit would have on me. I stopped to drop off some litter and food that I had left. The shelter was delighted to get it and expressed what I felt was true sympathy about Mahgy. I asked for, and received, a tour of the facility. The building, an old manufacturing plant, had been gutted and reassembled with an office and various rooms for the animals. They care for both dogs and cats, but cats are in the majority. I was amazed at the cleanliness of the dog quarters. Every day, volunteers feed and water the dogs. Then dog walkers arrive to take each animal for a long walk. Volunteers clean the cages, change the bedding and scrub the floors. That's just one room. Some dogs are placed in isolation if needed, and if there are puppies, they are separated from the older dogs. All of the dogs are in cages but receive a lot of love and attention from everyone coming in. Many are also in foster care. I was impressed with that area, but when I was shown the "cat room" I was entranced. My guide explained that there are usually a minimum of forty cats in the room, free roaming and having a grand time. There was a huge window with a ledge, and beds on every overhang, shelf and anyplace else where a rug or towel can be laid. Little houses sprouted up all across the room and toys scattered around waiting for a restless kitty to find them. Food and water is always available and there's a visiting bench for people like me to sit and admire the beauty of the incredible animals. Also, to be covered by them. They were some of the most beautiful animals I've ever seen; every color, size and shape, and any number of breeds mixed in. I sat on the bench expecting to stay for a few minutes but before I was settled, a little black cat with a white blaze on her chest crawled up on my lap and fell asleep. Soon I was surrounded by dozens of cats wanting their heads petted or tummies rubbed. One jumped on my shoulder and sat there singing in my ear. Before I realized it, a half hour had passed and the little black cat showed no signs of moving. Then a little tan tabby jumped up beside me and fell asleep against my leg. I couldn't disturb them, could I? I sat there for an hour, tears running down my cheeks, thinking about Mahgy. Finally the cats woke up, and got down. Although they sat and watched me, I took the opportunity to escape their spells. I volunteered that day to work in the office one day a week with the promise I could visit the cats whenever I felt the need. A week later, I asked about fostering. It's just like foster homes for children except you get a cat and the refuge takes care of the food and Vet. The second week, I decided to foster the little black one. I thought she was only a year or two old. It turned out she was 6-1/2 years old and had raised five litters, 26 kittens, in her life before she arrived at the Pet Refuge. She was only 6 lbs with silky fur and meticulous habits. Her name was Mama Kitty but I renamed her Cookie. She's like a little Oreo with a white belly surrounded by black fur. All cats arriving are tested for feline leukemia and dogs for heartworm. They then receive their initial shots, including rabies shots. They are also injected with a scanner chip which will identify them if they are ever lost. When I took Cookie, I was really interested in the little tan tabby that joined us that first day but he was in the infirmary because he was sneezing and coughing. Ah, well, I thought, one was enough. This Monday, two weeks later, I began fostering him. His name is Sammy and he's under a year old. Since Cookie is an experienced mother, I'm hoping she will mother him. They get along well and have even touched faces after only two days. She licked his face today, the third day. Sammy is more active than Cookie but I can pick him up and cuddle him. Cookie wants cuddling but on her own terms. They both like my lap and it's not been a problem so far. I had to rearrange my furniture today. Mahgy's favorite place was on top of my 7-foot tall TV center. Cookie found it her second day and Sammy on his first. There was no problem until they were both sleeping up there at either ends. Cookie wanted to get down and the only way down was blocked by Sammy. I lifted her down, but, of course that had to be remedied. One side has book cases which they use to jump to the top, so I moved a five drawer office storage bin to the other side which allows them to jump down on either side without walking over each other. So far it works. A friend once gave me a plaque with the saying, "A home is just a house without a cat." I found a lot of truth in those words during the few weeks I was without a cat. I have never felt so lonely, especially when I returned home after being out. Not now. Although they don't rush to greet me as Mahgy did, they are waiting in a convenient spot where ears and tails can be ruffled. I was really encouraged this morning when I opened the patio door and came back to find them sitting side by side watching the baby ducks eat. It was priceless to watch their eyes when a young groundhog sauntered up to get his lunch. He's bigger than both of them combined and they couldn't take their eyes off of him. I'm beginning to accept the fact that Mahgy is gone although but it still hurts. It helps to remember that Fat Baby's legacy to me when I lost him was to make way for Mahgy, who really needed me. Now Mahgy's legacy is allowing me to take Cookie and Sammy, both hard to adopt cats. Black cats like Cookie are usually overlooked, and Sammy is neither a kitten nor an adult and people see that age as too difficult to adopt. They needed me as much as I needed them. I know before long, I'll adopt both of them. I'll never forget Fat Baby or Mahgy as long as I have one (or two) four legged, fuzzy companions to share my life. That's their legacy to me. Copyright ©2002 Mary Benninghoff. All Rights Reserved |
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